Grave Consequences
by Ticklogic
Summary: S6's "Grave" with a kinky twist. Dark Willow hits a roadblock in her destructive path, when a well-meaning Giles sends her mind on a mystical spirit journey. But an old friend has torturous plans of her own for the vengeful witch.
1. Prologue

A _Buffy The Vampire Slayer_ Tickle Fic

_This takes place during the Season 6 finale, titled "Grave". The original teleplay was written by David Fury. I went in a… rather different direction._

She looked him in the eye, not noticing the blood that trickled from her nose. He had come out of nowhere, by way of England. And he had pushed her to the ground like a schoolyard bully. Pushed her with his mind, granted, and with temporary power on loan from Goddess-knew-who. It was that other power though, the one he had always had over her, that made her feel like a weakling. It was that helpful mentor BS that now antagonized her, that superiority thing. She had once thought of him as her teacher, but she had nothing left to learn from him.

She had considered him her friend, but now she only saw betrayers. Hell, he'd been a schoolgirl crush once, before she learned that those of the less fair sex were hardly worth her time. It had taken college to show her that- no, it had taken… Tara.

That deep fiery pain, which had nothing to do with her fall, flared up again, and Dark Willow stood and faced her old mentor.

The two studied each other from across the floor of the Magic Box. Giles, grave, his magick-wielding hand outstretched defensively. Dark Willow with an arrogant smirk that nevertheless barely covered her embarrassment at being caught off guard. "Uh-oh," she said with slightly wavering sarcasm, "Daddy's home… I'm in wicked trouble now."

Buffy viewed both of them apprehensively from her vantage point on the ground, where Willow had hurled her moments before. Anya stood with her back pressed to a line of shelves, clutching a spell book that had been providing her with some momentarily protective counter-spells. But now those two were merely spectators, waiting to see the results of this clash of the spell casters.

"Willow, you have to stop what you're doing," Giles warned in that soft, sincere way that drove her nuts.

"Uuh, sorry. Can't do that," she smirked. "I'm not finished yet."

The old man forged right ahead with his 'play nice now' routine. "Stay on this path and you'll wind up dead." Buffy spoke up.

"Willow. Listen to him. I don't want to fight you anymore."

"I don't want to fight you either," she explained, bored with the lecturing. "I wanna fight him." She stepped forward, raising her arms and summoning up all the nasty energy at her disposal. She wanted to hurt him, to put a stop to his stern warnings and his excruciating kindness.

But before she could do so much as open her mouth, Giles uttered a single, guttural exclamation and from his hand threw a line of green energy. The emerald magick wrapped itself around the witch's midsection like a boa constrictor, pinning her arms to her sides.

'Wow,' she thought, 'that's a pretty effective—'. The line flashed, abruptly cutting off her train of thought and replacing it with the quiet calm of oblivion.

* * *

_Worlds within worlds, circles within circles. Deep, pulsating darkness. A distant cry, a wail of pain. She heard the cry, and knew it was her own. A cry of loss, and furious anger. Her lover was—_

"NO!" She emerged from the darkness with a desperate cry. Blinking at sudden daylight, Dark Willow found herself… someplace else. Scrub brush and hardpan stretched toward a horizon that seemed infinite. She was in the desert, but not like the one that lay on the outskirts of Sunnydale. She wouldn't be surprised if that bastard Giles had sent her thousands of miles away. Dark Willow sniffed derisively. Only a temporary setback to the inevitable, like that time she poofed Glory the hellgod into the stratosphere. The old man was clearly getting desperate. With a flick of her wrist, she could be right back on track to extracting her revenge. Just as soon as she figured out why she couldn't move.

Dark Willow coolly surveyed her immediate surroundings. She was seated in a wooden contraption, her arms resting on padded boards with shackles that kept her hands firmly in place; her legs were perpendicular to her body. She noted with some vague interest that her ankles were kept in place by a latched pillory. What kinda Renaissance Faire crap was this?

And what happened to her threads? In the Magic Box she had sported much more imposing and dependably utilitarian black leather pants, shirt, and jacket. Now, in place of these, there was a sleeveless ebony dress with a plunging neckline. Her boots were also gone, as near as she could tell, replaced by slippers. On a thin chain around her neck hung a slender quartz bauble, which twinkled in the sun. It was the kind of getup Willow might have worn to a mystical ceremony. This gave her pause.

Is that what this was? Some kinda prelude to a ceremony? She didn't have time for this, she had fish to fry- 'Maybe literally,' she thought darkly- back in Sunnyhell. Intent to waste no more time, Dark Willow muttered, "Libero," to break down the contraption holding her. Nothing happened. She tried again, her voice louder and firmer this time. Nada.

She was about to try a third time when the air was filled with a low hum. She glanced around, seeking out the noise. The sound grew louder, and she could identify it as voices, the murmuring of an untold number of people. The blue skies began to dim, though the sun was still high, and clouds were nowhere to be seen. Dark Willow was apprehensive, her confidence in her magical abilities a little shaken. She blinked, as dim figures emerged like heat haze from the desert. With a sound like a sigh, the figures solidified into robed beings, the hum ceasing. They stood silently, six of them, their faces all hidden under dark hoods, their hands covered by the fabric of their sleeves. The center figure stepped forward, and Dark Willow locked her suspicious eyes on this one.

"Welcome," the figure croaked from the darkness of its hood. It was the voice of an ancient crone, she thought, a mystical wise woman. But the hands that appeared now from the crone's sleeves were young and fair, the fingernails painted crimson. These hands reached up to the hood, and pushed it back. Long, dirty-blonde hair fell in a cascade. Some crone.

"Well, crap," was the first thing to come to Dark Willow's mind.

* * *

Dark Willow floated above the floor of the Magic Box, unconscious, the line of green energy flowing strong around her.

"So, wait, she's not really here right now?" Buffy was confused.

"Well, physically, yes, but her unconscious mind has been transported into a sort of… mystical-psychological construct," Giles explained, with more detail than clarity. Buffy and Anya regarded him blankly. "It's like that film The Matrix," Giles sighed. Buffy and Anya "ah"d, getting it now.

"What'll happen to her now?" Buffy asked Giles as she followed him into the back room that served as her training area.

"The coven that imbued me with their powers have prepared a way to extract hers," Giles explained, leaning against the balance beam at the edge of the mat. "Without killing her, of course," he quickly added.

"They can do that? I mean, not to doubt the skills of the witches who gave you that impressive green stuff, but Willow's on a whole other kind of power trip."

"They can. I can't admit to knowing all of their methods, but… they're trustworthy, if enigmatic. Their practices have been perfected over hundreds of years, yet kept in strictest secrecy. Willow is with them in the spiritual realm. She will accept their treatment, one way or another, and be restored to… her former self."

Buffy looked him in the eye. "Can you be there to make sure they're successful?"

Giles shifted uncomfortably. "I- I wish I could, I really do. But… I must respect the Coven's desire for privacy. I would only impede their progress."

Well, that was that, then. Buffy turned back to peer into the main shop, where Anya was busying herself with cleaning the debris from Hurricane Will.

"I hope they know what they're doing," she said after a moment, her eyes worried.

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?" Dark Willow growled. Her eyes were narrow slits, staring daggers at the robed witch that stood before her.

Amy Madison coolly matched the gaze of her former friend.

"Oh Willow, I'm here to help you," she intoned with mock sincerity. "What with all the big, bad magicks you've been using, it's time for an intervention."

"Screw off, rat-face," Dark Willow spat. It was intended as a slap in the face to the woman who had spent several years spinning around a plastic wheel in Willow's bedroom, before Willow had finally reversed the spell that had put her there. But Amy barely blinked at the jibe, only clicking her tongue in admonishment.

"You're only going to make this whole thing harder on yourself," she warned, all mock empathy. Dark Willow rolled her eyes.

"So bring on the whips and chains already," she yawned. "I get it, you hate me. Let's move forward." Amy sighed, and approached the bound sorceress.

"This is not about hate. It's about power. You've always had all the power, long before you even knew what to do with it. Just came so easy for you." As Amy spoke, she slowly circled the wooden contraption, idly playing with the shackles on Dark Willow's wrists.

"The rest of us," she said, indicating the five silent beings that watched them from beneath dark hoods, "we had to work twice as hard to be half as good. But no one cares about how hard you work. They just care about cute, sweet Willow." She punctuated this with a patronizing pat on the head. "Even when she tries to kill them, they send her off to Wicca fat camp to be 'cured'."

Dark Willow glanced around the desert, glowering. So that's what this was supposed to be. But the dumbasses hadn't counted on the grudge-bearing Amy intercepting her on her way through the astral plane.

"But they don't know how weak she is." Amy's voice came from Dark Willow's left. Fingers spidered up her bare arm. She flinched, in revulsion. The cooing, taunting voice continued. "You've given in to evil… stuff unimaginable. You're well on your way to destroying your friends. And yet everyone keeps on loving you?" Amy was right at her ear, speaking in hushed tones. "So I figure, what's wrong with having a little fun, huh? Taking the 'Dark Willow' down a peg or two?"

Through clenched teeth, Dark Willow uttered two venomous syllables. "Bite me." Amy moved until she was eye-to-eye with her.

"Maybe later. First, I'm going to have some fun."

Amy gave a single, curt nod, signaling to the mute coven members. Two stepped forward, flanking Dark Willow on each side. She regarded them coldly as they grabbed her shoulders in a vice-like grip, undid her wrist shackles, and forced both arms above her head. Her wrists were re-locked in place on the wooden backrest.

The corners of Amy's mouth curled deviously. Dark Willow yawned.

"What's next?" she asked, nonchalant.

"Next... you scream!" Amy, her eyes dark as onyx, hissed. "Morsus!"

Emerald energy crackled from her fingertips, hitting Willow like a homing missile. Shrill screams cut though the desert air. But when the mystical dust settled, the captured witch was grinning from ear to ear. Amy, on the other hand, stood doubled over in pain.

"Is that your best attack spell?" Dark Willow asked. "'Cause other than a nice set of goosebumps, my flesh is pretty un-flayed."

Amy stood erect with a start, eyes wide with confusion and rage. That wasn't supposed to happen.

"This isn't a joke, bitch!" Amy's dark eyes flared. Dark Willow shrugged.

"It kinda is."

"Fine, slight change in tactic." With a flick of Amy's wrist, a gleaming metal knife appeared in her hand.

"Ooh, nice hardware," Dark Willow observed, not sweating it in the least. "Things finally getting serious between us?"  
>Amy was done with retorts. She slashed the blade against the pale flesh of Willow's face.<p>

"Agh!" came a tortured scream... from Amy. Droplets of blood trickled down her cheek. Dark Willow's smirk was holding fast, her flesh unharmed.

"Hmm. Looks like I am rubber and you are glue. All those times I said it in grade school, never thought it'd actually work," she laughed, enjoying Amy's misery. Her captor, fear and rage burning like embers in her black eyes, wiped the blood away with a less than steady hand.

"I- I told you. Don't laugh at me."

"But it's just so. Damn. Funny," Dark Willow deadpanned. "You're trying everything to torture me, and yet your nastiest hexes just kinda tickle."

Amy's eyes narrowed. Regarding her captive with cold mirth, she crept toward the pillory with renewed menace.

"So," Amy began, "Just to recap for the slow witches in the audience…" She indicated her minions. "Any injury I inflict on you comes back to me threefold."

"Not to mention what I'll do to you when I get out of this."

"Mm, right. And my usual juju does little more than… I think the word you used was 'tickle'?"

She was right back at the dark sorceress' side, taking in the sight of her bound body, calculating.

"Honestly, now. You're sure you're not even a tiny bit gay?" Dark Willow offered with a withering glance.

"Shut up and laugh, Rosenberg." Amy dug her crimson fingernails into the concaves of Dark Willow's pale underarms, wiggling them furiously.

Hooded coven members turned to each other, confused. Amy was tickling with fierce abandon. Dark Willow was staring at her, wide-eyed, mouth agape… but not a single giggle escaping. Just utterly caught off guard.

Amy noted with some frustration that she wasn't getting the reaction she wanted. Pressing on, she concentrated on kneading the flesh at the sides of Willow's stomach, a spot that Amy found nerve-wrecking on her own body.

"Have you gone mental, rat brain?" Dark Willow exclaimed, as Amy began frantically scribbling her nails on the witch's belly. But the captive had not the slightest of ticklish reactions. The would-be torturer stepped back, throwing her hands to the air.

"God, what is it with you! You're barely human!" Amy cried.

"Face it, you've got a crappy sense of timing," Dark Willow explained, contemptuous. "My sensitivity went out with my natural hair color. The age of weak little Willow is the past."

Amy's eyes lit up. Another idea. One that might actually work. She turned once more to her captive. Approached the pillory with hands raised. Dark Willow just kept her bored scowl.

"Give it up, Amy. Unless you've got a Delorean that goes 88 miles per hour…"

Amy wrapped her palms around the side of Dark Willow's head, locking eyes with her former friend.

"Don't worry, Red. Where we're going, we won't need roads."

There was white light. And then silence.

To Be Continued... 


	2. Chapter 1

_"Your shirt…" She collapses. Blood.

"Come on baby. Get up. Please. Tara!"

no, don't show me this, not this…

Further back.

Soft morning light through the window. "I forgot how good this could feel. Us. Together… Without the magic."

Warm and soft and slick with sweat like dew.

_

_"Oh, there was plenty of magic, Will."_

Tara Maclay smiles at her lover. They're tangled in the sheets after a long night. Willow, full of warmth and contentment, leans in for a long, sensual kiss. It's been eternity and a day. Magic drew them together; its abuse tore them apart. But nothing so trivial could stand between them for long.

Willow snuggles in closer, Tara stroking her hair. Peaceful, Willow eyes the midmorning sunlight.

"Mm, it's getting late," she notes.

"You wanna get up?" her lover asks, certain of the answer, grinning wide when she hears it.

"No. God, no." Willow rolls over, indulging in the silk sheets, to face Tara. "Can't we stay like this forever?"

"That's up to you. It's all your fault."

Willow blinks, darkness passing over her expression. Did she hear what she thought she heard?

"Wh- what?"

Tara giggles.

"I said, it's your decision, sweetie."

The dark cloud passes, and Willow returns her lover's grin.

"I think you know my decision."

"I do?" Tara replies, a look of mock innocence barely suppressing her grin.

Willow nods slyly. She slides herself face first toward the foot of the bed, propping her feet against the headboard. Tara shivers in anticipation. A moment, dripping slowly in time, and then Willow has found her target. She spreads the sheets to uncover it. In an instant, Tara sees only a mass of crimson hair as her lover explores the area with her tongue. The blonde's mouth cracks open, her eyes closing, her head sliding back as tingling warmth floods her.

"Oh, Will," Tara breathes. "Goddess, that… tickles!"

Willow raises her head, a little sheepish. There's an audible 'pop' as Tara's toes leave her mouth, sticky saliva trailing behind.

"Sorry, babe. Know how you hate that."

Tara's hand grasps the bed sheets. She rocks forward, her eyes hungry with desperate need. She can only mouth her request: 'D- don't stop!'

Willow grins, and fulfills their shared desire. First, she takes Tara's bare foot in her hands, regarding it with the same dreamy indulgence she usually reserves for that first morning cup of coffee. She holds a moment, allowing her lover to feel the insinuation of warm breath on the backs of her toes. Tara's breath catches. Willow smiles. Right where she wants her.

Willow glides her tongue along the tops of Tara's toes, which twitch and flex in response. A soft moan from her lover spurns her on. Her moist lips envelope the big toe, eyes half-closed in ecstasy. She slides her fingers along the smooth flesh at the bottom of Tara's foot, gently massaging as she slurps contentedly. So deeply enraptured in tasting her lover's toes, that it's a moment before she feels the first, tentative touch on her arch. A shiver of not-entirely pleasant sensation makes itself known.

Willow's eyes pop open. Something's not quite right. She feels it again- that electrical tingle starting at her arch and shimmering down her leg. Tara's toes still in her mouth, Willow glances back, where her own feet are still comfortably propped on the headboard. Tara, lost in her own pleasure, has dreamily begun to plant kisses on the upturned pink soles resting so carelessly close to her head. A faint crease of worry appears on Willow's brow.

In the time since they'd introduced this game to their sexual repertoire, they'd found it best to draw the line at Willow's feet. Light touches were fun, but Willow possessed a special brand of sensitivity. The kind that tended to break the spell of foreplay whenever a stray poke found its way to a hot spot. This discovery, found one evening in the UC Sunnydale dorms, at first yielded playful delight, only to somewhat embarrassingly end with Willow taking a header off Tara's bed. From that moment on, Willow made clear her aversion to tickling and the helplessness it wrought. To lose control like that…

All of this comes creeping back to her, as Tara's gentle foot kisses send tremors straight to Willow's central nervous system. Not wishing to ruin the moment, Willow tries to renew her attentions on her lover's foot, in an attempt to block out the sensations coming from her own. But her mind's not in it. And she nearly jumps out of her skin when she feels what comes next. Willow's mouth drops open in shock, letting go of Tara's glistening wet toes in the process. She looks back.

Tara is running her tongue from sole to arch, licking Willow's bare foot with lusty abandon. Willow isn't used to this. Her body shifts with tiny, uncontrollable spasms. She wants to say something, to tactfully tell her girl to knock it off, but all that comes out is a pitiful squeak. If Tara hears that plaintive sound, she shows no signs of slowing down. Willow grabs hold of the bed sheets with one hand, as if holding on for dear life. A wise move.

'Oh goddess,' Willow thinks with sudden alarm, 'is she using her teeth?' Sure enough, Tara is nibbling gently on her heel… then her arch… then lightly grazing the pad just under the toes. The final straw. Willow can't help it. She bursts into giggles. She immediately clasps one hand over her mouth, fearful of waking the others in the house. Pounds the bed with her other fist like a madwoman. She's sure that'll be the end of it- that Tara will be broken from her reverie, and they'll move on to the fun, non-torturous activities.

But Tara doesn't stop. She clasps Willow's bucking bare foot in her hands, holding it still as she works her tongue and teeth along the excruciatingly ticklish flesh. Somehow, Willow finds her voice.

"Ha h-all right, baby, stop!" It's a frenzied plea, and it finally gets through. Willow heaves a sigh of relief. She turns slightly to see Tara regarding her with a raised eyebrow, still holding her foot captive. "All right…" Willow pants, trying to disguise her annoyance, "I think… we're done… with feet."

"Is that a surrender?" Tara asks. There's a strange tone to her voice that's not the playful edge Willow's used to hearing. It's cold.

"Yeah-huh," Willow replies, with a certain unease, as she attempts to pull her foot away. But Tara holds strong. "Um, honey… Let go. Please." Tara breaks eye contact, looking with a scientific detachment at the fair-skinned, lightly freckled appendage she holds. Willow is no stranger to being caught in vulnerable positions—it's a weekly event, living over the Hellmouth. But right now, this is trumping them all.

"I dunno, Will," Tara intones, lightly running the pad of her index finger across Willow's sole. Willow's toes clench involuntarily, and her eyes narrow. "I'm not really buying the 'surrender'. Could you try that once more?" Her finger stops, nail pointing at the center of Willow's arch. She locks eyes with her lover. "With feeling?"

Tara twists her finger back and forth like a drill. Willow yelps. Quite loudly. She doesn't have time to be embarrassed about it, as Tara begins scratching her first two fingernails against Willow's yielding, sensitive arch. She yelps again, her whole body bucking. Tara watches her reactions, expressionless. Her fingernails are now twice as long and flaming crimson. Willow's brow furrows at the sight. But she's too late to do anything. Tara, or whatever's posing as her, digs in.

Willow's laughter bubbles forth as she wriggles helplessly, making serpentine patterns in the crimson bed sheets. The jittery warmth of earlier lovemaking gives way to a feeling not unlike panic, as electrical jolts arc along her nerves. It's not fun any more.

"Baby, please," Willow pants between frenzied giggles. "Tarahahaha!"

"Shut up, bitch," Tara spits venomously. "Nothing you can do with all your power. Couldn't even save me."

The poison words cut through the sensory overload of the tickling. Willow's eyes squeeze shut, mouth contorting in emotional agony, but her sounds of mirth continue. The idyllic sunlight that once bathed the room has faded to ashy gray, and Willow's skin prickles at the feel of an arid wind. The illusion is breaking down.

To Be Continued... 


	3. Chapter 2

The whistling desert wind- which was no more "real" than the bed sheets in the warm room- carried with it peals of forceful laughter, which didn't exist any more than did the dewy sweat of two lovers' post-coital bliss. Reality was a dream with many levels and byzantine structure. Or maybe it was more like spongy layer cake, in that those modes of existence had a tendency to seep into each other. Especially when the forks are brought out.

And so, in the dim—and have we established enough, fake—desert, two powerful witches were locked in an act of world bending ritual. Willow, infused with dark magic, remained trapped in body and mind. Amy was kneeling at her bound feet, but not in an act of supplication. She was rapidly working her crimson nails into the wrinkles and crevices on the bottoms of Dark Willow's pale, pink feet, drawing frenzied giggles from the sorceress. She moved with supernatural speed, occasionally discovering, by pure chance, some hidden cluster of nerves that would bring an extra loud yelp.

Amy was unaware of the effect, however, as her eyes were clouded with black energy and fixed on those of her captive. She moved on total autopilot, the two witches locked into a shared illusion. As the hooded coven members surrounding them observed, Dark Willow's blackened tresses were gradually shifting back to red, as she shook her head from side to side, writhing in ticklish agony. Amy was going through an inverse transformation: purplish veins spreading across her exposed flesh, all color leeching out of her blonde hair. The hum of dark energy increased tenfold. It almost drowned out the moan of pure pleasure as Amy threw her head back, wracked with a sudden burst of unimaginable magick. Dark Willow cried out in pain as her power was drained, the two women almost harmonizing.

"Yes, YES!" Amy cried out, triumphant. Lightning ripped across the sky, leaving indigo streaks. Cracks in the veneer of another reality. The coven members shifted nervously, peering at each other from under their hoods. Drawn in like magnets, Amy's flying fingers skittered under Dark Willow's toes. The bound witch convulsed in her seat, and the hard earth trembled with her. Amy, to the coven members' eyes, was blurring. She appeared to double and triple, rocking on her knees as power flooded her. Lost in ecstasy. Dark Willow, imprisoned and agonized, turned ashen.

Tears streaming down her face, Willow lies uselessly on the bed, as Tara continues to ravage her bare feet. The fight is drained out of her, but the laughs keep coming, her body twitching listlessly. She should be numb to the fingernails, which trace over patterns drawn a hundred times now. But each stray scrape rings as loud as the first. Like magic.

"T-Tara," she chokes out. "I'm sorry…"

No response. Just the damned fingers. They worm their way between her toes, and she jumps like a shot.

"Goddess, I swear!" she cries, her words coming out vibrato. "I-I-I tried! Bu-huh-hut you were gone! Oh, god, stop!" Willow looks behind her, eyes locking with the woman torturing her. The laughter sticks in her throat. Recognition and horror play across her face. That's not Tara.

"A-Amy?" she gasps. Amy Madison, crimson bed sheet draped over her chest, Willow's feet locked in the crook of her arm, stops her assault. Looks up. She gives her captive a malicious wink. Then grabs her, groping for ticklish flesh under the sheets.

Willow shrieks as Amy's fingers find her waist and dig in. She tries to wriggle free, to no avail. 'And where would I go?' she thinks, as the room fades into an empty, black void. 'Oh, Goddess, help me. I don't know what to do!" A sound of rising wind surrounds the two witches, locked in their seemingly endless struggle. Willow continues to struggle miserably. She feels a tongue darting between her toes as hands knead the flesh of her sides, the combined sensation bringing her to the edge. Her throat burns with riotous laughter.

'No way out of this.' The words float through her brain. 'No way out.'

_Willow._

She blinks. What was—

_Willow, you have to be strong._

It's not Amy's voice behind her, but it's so familiar…

_Strong like an Amazon, remember?_

Willow's eyes almost bulge out of her head, and it's not from Amy's relentless tickling. It's Tara. And she's inside her head.

'Oh, baby, it's you!' Willow concentrates on the words. 'Tara, I'm so sorry—'

_Listen to me. She's killing you._

The grave tone sends the words home. But she still has so many questions.

_There's no time. You have to stop her._

'How?' Willow asks the calm voice of her lover. 'I'm- I'm helpless!'

_No. No, that's not true. Baby, I know it's hard, but you have to take control of this illusion. Take control. Use her weak…_

The words fade, like a radio tuning out. Willow tries desperately to hold on to the voice, but it's gone.

Willow squeezes her eyes shut, bitter tears dripping onto the bed sheets. Her head falls to the mattress, cheek pressed against the soft linen, forced laughter turning into the breathless heaving of a sob. Her torturer pays no heed. Willow's eyes open to slits set in her exhausted face. Her bleary vision gradually clears. Eyes focus on the nearest object— Amy's bare foot, resting inches away, red-painted toes flexing absently as she goes about her work. The corner of Willow's mouth twitches as she takes this in.

'Use her weakness,' she reflects, a sense of purpose back in her eyes. She glances at her torturess from the corner of her eye. Amy is joylessly engrossed in her dark doings. Willow cautiously slides her arm across the sheets, reaching. Amy squeezes the back of Willow's knee. The redhead yelps, hand stopping short of her target. Looks back. The blonde isn't paying any attention. If Willow waits another second, she'll lose her resolve completely. She grabs Amy's foot. Madly rakes her nails over the unprotected sole. The effect… is nonexistent. Undeterred, she tries again. Nada.

"Not ticklish," Amy mutters. "Not like you are." As if to illustrate, she insistently scratches under Willow's toes. The redhead bites her lip. Eyes steely and determined. Somewhere behind Amy's blank expression appears a faint glimmer of surprise. She scribbles along the girl's instep. Willow squeezes her eyes shut, and matches the technique on Amy's foot. The blonde doesn't budge. But neither does Willow. She focuses on the bare body part in front of her.

"M-maybe not, Amy," Willow stutters, all too aware of the oblivion of laughter lurking behind every word. "But Tara… was. Sh-she **hated** when I used my nails. Like this."

The redhead traces a spiral pattern along the bottom of Amy's foot. A slow, lightly pressured stroke that flows into a unified figure. Amy's nose crinkles.

"I'm not your dead girlfriend," she snaps. Her mouth sets in smug satisfaction. "Right now, I'm bringing you to your **end**." The arid wind wraps around the two witches, making them both shiver. Willow tightens her grip on Amy's ankle.

"Out there, in that other astral plane, maybe," Willow shrugs. "But here… we're in _my_ fantasy." She looks the other woman in the eye. And sees fear.

On the bottom of Amy's foot, Willow's traced figure glows scarlet. A mystical spiral. Amy's face twists in shock. She shakes her leg as if it's fallen asleep.

"Kinda tingles, doesn't it?" Willow murmurs mockingly. Her grip has not relaxed. She drags Amy's foot closer.

"What are you—? Stop. Now," commands Amy, with none of her earlier authority.

"What do you say we play a little game? How about, 'This little rodent went to the market…'" Willow sing-songs, delicately pinching Amy's pinkie toe.

Amy gasps, blinks rapidly. Willow wraps thumb and forefinger around the next toe.

"This little rodent ate cheese… this little rodent spun her wheel…" she continues, strength growing as she finds her own body spared. Amy has begun to sweat.

"No, this isn't supposed to happen…" the blonde murmurs as Willow grips another toe.

"_This_ little rodent overstepped her bounds," she intones maliciously.

"Stop," Amy hisses through gritted teeth. She digs her nails into Willow's arch. "Stop now."

The redhead feels the pressure of Amy's fingers, but they carry no other sensation. She locks eyes with her former torturer. Rubs her fingertip on the pad of the blonde's big toe. Lips curling into the devious smirk of Dark Willow.

"And _this _little rodent? Well, don't you think it's about time she went… back… **home**?"

Amy's face is aflame with pure hatred. Dark Willow flashes her teeth in a predatory grin.

"Payback's a bitch," she giggles. "And so am I." Her fingers fly.

The desert skies rumbled. Fissures cracked open in the hard earth, and the hooded coven members moved quickly to avoid tumbling in. Beyond them, the witches' battle went on. But the tables had turned.

Amy was flat on her back, twisting desperately in the dust. Howling with laughter.

"God, stop, stop!" she shrieked. She tore off her boots and black socks, revealing tendrils of mystical light that swirled around her bare feet. Amy scraped her soles against the ground, trying desperately to stop the maddening sensations.

Dark Willow was regaining her namesake, as the malevolent energy flooded her once again. Her eyes were twin coals, her brow furrowed with intense concentration. The wooden bonds dissolved into smoke, leaving her floating. She lowered her arms and straightened her body, bare toes dangling several feet above the ground.

Amy watched this with growing horror. She struggled to utter a spell through her hysterical giggling. Dark Willow was gliding toward her.

"Vuh-huh-huh… _Vincere_!" Amy gasped, throwing a weak bolt of emerald magick at the fast-approaching sorceress. The charm hit Dark Willow full in the stomach. She absorbed the hit without a flinch. Then shook her head at the struggling witch in admonishment, flicking an arc of indigo lightning from her fingertips.

The stream of magick ripped through Amy's robe to the flesh beneath, dancing like electrical current along her body. Every nerve ending prickled as bright tendrils arced across her belly and snaked their way under her arms, guided by Dark Willow's steady hands. Amy began to nearly hyperventilate with laughter, on the edge of hysteria. Dark Willow just watched her handiwork, cold and impassive.

Around them, chaos reigned. Dust whirled in a massive cyclone as the ground continued to crack and shift. Dark Willow reached her prey, hands claw-like as she loomed over the hysterical blonde. Amy's laughter edged into a moan of terror.

"I can stop this," Dark Willow intoned, her voice carrying over the chaotic din. "Give me your power, and it all goes away." Amy struggled to speak.

"Agh—th- that's more true than you know!" she gasped.

"No more games, Amy," Dark Willow warned. Amy's face screwed up in pained concentration.

"Li-listen… to… me! This world, this… construct, it's falling apart!" she spat out. Some distance away, a bolt of lightning surged from the sky and struck a coven member. The hooded man seized up, and went sprawling into a wide crevice. Dark Willow raised an eyebrow.

"Looks like it," she observed, almost matter-of-factly. "Guess I'll have to wrap this up." The dark sorceress descended like a wraith.

"No! You don't understand!" Amy shrieked, as Dark Willow's hands fell upon her chest. At the point of contact, streams of emerald energy flowed freely from deep within her. The two witches cried out simultaneously, halfway between pain and pleasure. Dark Willow quaked as stolen magic flooded her. In her euphoria, she took no notice of the apocalyptic destruction around her. Nor of Amy, who summoned her last ounce of strength to grab Dark Willow's wrists. The ground split open beneath Amy's back. The witches were swallowed whole.


End file.
